


Obsession

by bluebright_l



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:00:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1429522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebright_l/pseuds/bluebright_l
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brandon's obsession finally gets the best of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obsession

**Author's Note:**

> Modern AU where the Stark family are arms manufacturers. IDK.

“It’s wrong, Brandon. You’re blood. Brother and sister. You shouldn’t-” He looked sick to his stomach as he flipped through the sketchbook, still outwardly pristine, unreflective of the pages within.

 

Brandon shouldered past Ned, snatching the sketchbook from his hands. “Don’t touch my shit again, Ned.” It was his most private possession, not even Lyanna was allowed to look at it, much as she might rage at him.

 

“Did she...does she _pose_ for you?” He sounded like a scandalized old biddy, with just a hint too much interest. Brandon rounded on him, his face a calm mask.

 

“Why, Ned? Like what you see a little too much? It sounds like you do to me.”

 

Brandon was fascinated and amused by the emotions showing plainly on Ned’s face: disgust, anger, titillation all warring there. In that way, he and Lya were so similar, though Brandon thought it wasn’t a shared character trait. Lya _could_ hide her emotions, she just chose not to, his wild shewolf. Ned, on the other hand...well, Brandon doubted anyone outside of the family could read his brother’s implacable face, but to those who knew him, he was an open book. And what a boring tale he told. Brandon loved his brother, but _gods_ , was he a boring stick in the mud.

 

“Don’t be disgusting, Brandon.”

 

\---

 

But now that Ned had put the idea in his mind, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. All of his drawings were from imagination...the ones of Lya, at least. There were a few other sketches in the book, of cars mostly, or stylized wolves, but in general, it was Lya. Lya reclining on the hood of a Bugatti Veyron, Lya stepping into a bath, Lya with her hands bound, on her knees and gazing up at him...no, she could never see this sketchbook.

 

But...maybe he could convince her to pose for him. The thought made his blood burn so hot he took off for a few days on his own, smoking Marlboro after Marlboro as he drove. The road sang beneath the tires, the Camaro souped up to his own exacting specifications. He wanted Lya here with him, singing along to the radio in that not quite in tune voice of hers, one hand riding the slipstream out the open window...gods, how he wanted her, every single bit of her, for himself.

 

He picked up a black-haired hitchhiker miles south of Winterfell. Her tits were a little too full, the nipples too dark, but her ass was perfect, round and high. It was easy enough to fuck her from behind, so he didn’t have to look into her disappointingly blue eyes. When he dropped her off the next day, he didn’t ask her name, but she told him anyway. Barbrey. He filed it away, his mind meticulous as always, despite the fever in his blood. She was a good enough lay, and something about her no-fuck’s given attitude appealed to him, though he didn’t care to examine that attraction just now.

 

When he pulled into the garage, she was waiting for him. He didn’t question how she knew he was back, they’d always had the sort of connection that made such things possible. His Lya, staring at him with icy eyes through his windshield.

 

“Where did you go?” She was on him as soon as he got out of the car, hopping down from her perch on the toolbench to jab a finger in his chest. “I needed your help with my project.”

 

Damn. He’d forgotten completely, taken over as he was by his feverish lust. “I’ll help you now.”

 

“It’s too late,” she said coldly. “I don’t need you now.”

 

“Then why are you out here waiting for me, Lya?”

 

_Say it_ , he wanted to growl at her. _Say you need me._ They’re dancing on a knife’s edge. _Say you want me._

 

“I wasn’t.”

 

She turned around and went on her tiptoes to reach a wrench high up on the pegboard. Her faded Winterfell youth soccer league shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of porcelain skin. He crossed the space between them in two long strides, pressing up close behind her as he reached over her outstretched arm to grab the wrench.

 

This close, he could smell her scent, a heady mixture of plain Ivory soap and _her_. He could see the dark mass of her hair, thick and heavy, and oh gods, he wanted to bury his hands in it, pull her face close to his and taste her pink lips… It took every ounce of his self-control to step back and hand the wrench to her.

 

“Thanks,” she said, her gaze softening when she turned around to take it.

 

He could see now, she was hurt that he’d went away without talking to her, without telling her where he was going or when he’d be back. “I’m sorry, Lya.” _I love you too much and I can’t bear not having you, Lya._

 

“Fine. Whatever.” She looked over her shoulder at him as she went back inside, smiling in a way that let him know while he wasn’t forgiven yet, he would be.

 

\--

 

“Brandon, what are you getting Mother and Father for their anniversary?” Lya threw herself down onto his bed with the sort of thoughtless, athletic grace that seemed to run rampant in the Stark children. _Except for poor, plodding Ned_ , Brandon thought, watching his sister from his desk chair.

 

“I don’t know,” he said, rolling a carpenter’s pencil between his fingers. “Did Mother give you the ‘don’t buy us anything, we have all we need’ speech?”

 

“Ugh, yes. I guess I could make them something, but…” She grinned at him, and they both laughed. Most of the things Lyanna made were not very suitable for anniversary gifts, unless one’s anniversary was being spent on a battlefield or a racetrack. “You could at least draw them something.” She gestured to the stylized Stark Arms logo he’d pinned over his desk years back.

 

He couldn’t even reply, at first. He was struck dumb by the perfect opportunity she’d presented him with. “That’s true. I could always do a family portrait, maybe in charcoal…” She wasn’t fully listening, his precious, self-absorbed little sister. All the better. “I’m rusty on my anatomy though. Too much mechanical drawing. Sit for me, so I can get some practice.”

 

She laughed again, low and throaty, and stretched out on the bed, one leg bent, an arm behind her head. “Draw me like one of your French girls, Brandon.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, even as he was reaching for a notepad. He noted the way her eyes sharpened, and was pleased. _Yes, take it as a challenge, if you like._

 

She shifted on the bed, but held her position, her steel eyes watching his pencil fly over the page. “French girls don’t shave under their arms, anyway. You can draw me like one of the sluts you don’t bring home.”

 

“I don’t draw them,” he said, sketching in the way her braid curved over her shoulder, then scowling, displeased with it. “Take your braid out,” he told her, flipping to a new page.

 

She did as he asked, shaking her thick hair over one shoulder and laying back down, her head cushioned on his pillow. “You don’t draw them, you don’t bring them home to meet your family...what _do_  you do with them, slit their throats and bury them in Godswood Forest?”

 

“I fuck them, Lya. You know that.” _I fuck them and imagine you and it’s never enough._ He glanced at her as he sketched her, gauging her reaction. Her cheeks were stained with red, but she didn’t seem to have any problem meeting his eyes. He wasn’t completely surprised to see how possessive she looked; Lyanna had very specific ideas about her brothers’ dating lives, and Brandon knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he was her favorite brother. “Is that a problem?”

 

Lyanna sat up, pushing her hair out of her face. “I wouldn’t give two shits, Brandon, if I thought that’s what you really wanted. But it’s like…” She sighed, clearly frustrated, and stripped off her hoodie, then went on. “It’s like you’re trying to run away from something, and that’s horseshit. We’re Starks, we don’t run from _anything_.” Brandon’s mouth was dry. She was calling him out, and all he could do was stare at her. Of course Lya would notice and understand, even if she didn’t get the reason for it. “Well?” She snapped at him. “Say something, will you?”

 

The air between them seemed to thicken, the tension palpable. Brandon closed his sketchbook and set it aside calmly, gratified to see a spark of unease in his sister’s eyes. Everyone in the family knew Brandon’s temper was masked by a seemingly calm front. “What exactly do you want me to say, Lyanna?”

 

“What the hell you’re so scared of!” Lyanna’s temper, as usual, flared quick and hot.

 

Whatever semblance of control Brandon had thought he possessed was gone in an instant. Crossing the short space between his desk chair and the bed, he grabbed his sister by the chin, pulling her to her knees on the bed. He could feel her trembling, but her eyes were steely, defiant. The contrast was intense...and perfect.

 

“I’m not scared of anything, Lya. I fuck those girls because I can. They’re all more than happy to put out for the heir to Stark Arms. What the fuck do you care, anyway? Jealous?” He threw that last word out like a gauntlet.

 

“Fuck you, Brandon.”

 

He loved to watch her lips form that word, loved the way she dragged her bottom lip through her front top teeth, the sharp exhalation of the vulgarity. Brandon was losing control, and fast; reaching down with his free hand, he yanked one of her legs out from where it was folded beneath her and pushed her to her back. He followed her down onto the bed, carefully keeping his body from touching hers by a matter of inches. She struggled against him a little, but he noted that she didn’t knee him in the groin, despite the fact that she had a clear shot.

 

“I fuck those girls because I can’t have what I really want.” His hand traveled from her jaw to her throat, circling it lightly. He could feel her pulse beneath his fingertips, beating hard and fast. “ _Who_ I really want.”

 

She didn’t say anything, just stared at him, the anger in her steel grey eyes fading to confusion, before finally settling on understanding. Her chin tilted up with stubborn determination, a familiar action that he loved, and then she was kissing him, a gentle, tentative thing that had no place among wolves. Kissing her back was like coming up for air after being held underwater, and he never wanted to stop.

 

He had never imagined that she would respond like this, but she had a hand wrapped around the back of his neck and he could feel her sharp, white teeth nipping at his lower lip...yes, this was very real. When he lowered his body to hers, she wrapped one jean-clad leg around the back of his thighs, holding him against herself and working her body up against his. He wondered, not for the first time, if she’d ever been with a boy before...the way she was grinding against him suggested she at least knew the mechanics of it, but then Lyanna knew the mechanics of most everything.

 

Breaking the kiss to strip her V-neck tee off, Brandon raised up on an elbow and looked down at her, his beautiful little sister, his Lya. Her bra was black and plain, with a front clasp that he touched, but didn’t undo. Her skin was pale and smooth and perfect, and he pressed a kiss to the swell of one of her breasts. “Have you ever…?”

 

“No.” Her hands were under his shirt, running up his back, around his ribs and down his chest and abs, then repeating, as if she wanted to feel every part of him she could reach. “But that’s okay. I want to.” Her hips rocked against him, proof of her desire, and she tugged his shirt over his head.

 

He undid the clasp of her bra, and pulled it away before lowering himself back down to kiss her, that first touch of skin-on-skin intoxicating and heady. Her nipples were hard against his chest and this time she moaned softly when he moved against her, sending a spike of heat straight to his already achingly hard cock. On one hand, he wanted to kiss her forever, wanted to go slow and make her first time perfect. But on the other hand…

 

His jeans came off easily, hers less so. Growing impatient, he just ripped them off and tossed them aside, then yanked her down on the bed. He loved the cheeky boy short underwear she wore, slipping one finger under the elastic waist and smiling when she wiggled upward so that they came down around his finger. She responded perfectly to his every move, anticipating his needs and fulfilling them without even knowing she was.

 

Brandon ghosted a finger over his sister’s clit, then did it again when she arched beneath him. She was so wet, so ready for him...he wanted to taste her, wanted to have her in every way possible, but the need to claim her as his own was overwhelming, and he told himself there would be time enough for the rest later.

 

He’d had virgins before, but never one who wrapped her legs around him and pulled him down until the tip of his cock slid between her slick folds. Never one who said “please” in a tone that was equal parts pleading and commanding. He’d been trying to control himself, but he’d been controlling himself for so long now… He pushed into her roughly, grunting at the tight fit and the slight resistance he felt.

  
For a moment, he just held still, buried deep within her, his lips seeking out her pulse. When she said his name, so quiet, just a breath, Brandon began to move. She lay stiffly beneath him at first, before clinging to him, her breath coming in small bursts against his neck with each thrust. Later, when it was over, it occurred to him that she had probably been in some pain, or at least discomfort. But in the moment, all he could think about was how perfect she felt, that she was _his_. 


End file.
